


all the roads you took came back to me (so i'm following the map that leads to you)

by blifuys



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, Joint Blue Lions and Golden Deer Route, Kinda, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Promises, Spoilers, Wedding Rings, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blifuys/pseuds/blifuys
Summary: “Do you think that destiny exists, Claude?”The stars are bright tonight. It is a particularly clear night, not a cloud in the sky. According to Flayn, there is no rain forecasted for the next few days. There is, however, a very nice breeze that washes over them both while they stand out on the walkway to the cathedral, nothing but the flickering lamps and each other to keep them company.“Destiny, huh.” Claude’s leaning on the brick barrier, his head tilted upwards as he stares off into the sea of stars that stretch out above them, no end in sight, “Not particularly.”dimiclaude week 2020 day 7: Kings.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 134





	all the roads you took came back to me (so i'm following the map that leads to you)

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY DIMICLAUDE WEEK MY DUDES, i haven't had quite the energy to fill every single prompt, but i've really enjoyed reading everyone's work. This will be my last dimiclaude entry this year, it's been quite fun! many thanks to the great artists and creators that really put their heart and soul into every wonderful bit of dimitri and claude's love, y'all are the TRUE MVPS!!
> 
> Minor edits: I dun goofed! Please do not upload your fics at 2am everyone, if not the unbeta'd state of your work comes and bites you in the ass.

**0.**

Destiny is a concept that is incredibly familiar to Dimitri. He does not know what destiny looks like for other people just yet, a boy barely ten years old without much exposure to the world outside of Fhirdiad and Blaiddyd, but he knows what destiny looks like to him.

A great ivory throne, fitted with plush velvet cushioning and its armrests gleaming with polished gold. It sits in the middle of the second biggest room in Castle Fhirdiad, big dark-blue banners hanging from the walls and huge marble pillars, detailed embroidered lions stitched into the cloth with golden thread.

A crown. Too big for him now to sit comfortably on his head, and the polish gold slips down to his shoulders when he tries it once in curiosity, his father laughing at the sight of his son fumbling with the icon of the monarchy at such a young age.

He is twelve, two moons shy of thirteen, when his father looks at him from his study desk, grand stacks of paperwork heavy on the wood. Dimitri wonders how anyone can look so much like a King without a crown on his head, without the golden threads and silk clothes adorning his body, surrounded by the gentle sparkle of jewels adorning his neck and wrists.

Lambert, bless his hardworking soul, had to work longer these days—especially with his imminent trip to Duscur high on his priority list. So many treaties to work through, numerous tangles to smooth out, all for the sake of peace between their two lands.

Dimitri thinks his father is strong, for he walks with the fate of two nations on his shoulders, but all he looks is forward.

He does not remember what he asks. He is too busy staring at the state his father is in, too in awe at the raw charisma that radiates off the man’s body and in the way he carries himself. He does not remember what made his father look up from his desk with a tired, yet affectionate gaze—but his father replies anyway.

“No, that’s fine.” The King says, “Head to bed, Dimitri, it’s late.”

“Papa,” Dimitri looks down to both his hands, spreading and closing the tiny palms as if to check if they’re working still, before he looks up at him again—wide-eyed in awe, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?” Lambert asks.

“How do you,” The small boy begins to wave with his hands in front of him, making little shapes in the air in an attempt to bring his point across better, “How do you look like a King, even without the pretty clothes and the crown…”

It’s not a question he’s able to ask properly. The weight of the crown bears heavy on Dimitri’s head, even if it’s not physically _his_ just yet. But he is a small boy standing in front of an ocean, too big for him to ever dream of crossing. His father seems like he’s on top of the world with how _easy_ , how naturally the title of King comes to him.

And while Dimitri’s sinking slowly into the overwhelming feeling of it all, he realises his hands are being held, encapsulated in strength and support and everything the King embodies, everything his father embodies _._ The young boy looks up to face his father, who’s long abandoned his work as he turns to face his son eye-to-eye.

“Dimochka,” Lambert smiles at him tiredly, the quiet glow of the oil lamp in front of him making his eyebags look even heavier, his father a little older that he knows him to be, “A crown alone does not crown the king, but the people do. 

Dimitri does not understand what he means, but he nods anyway. Lambert’s eyes soften, distant and warm around the edges. He reaches out and brushes back strands of long, golden hair from Dimitri’s face, before tucking them gently behind his ear. The young boy feels comforted, content, and the gentle warmth in his heart fills the room like the light.

“Never forget your heart, my son. It is your greatest strength and biggest weakness yet.”

**2.**

From the corner of his eye, he sees it, a flash of yellow entering the library as he keeps his nose buried into the leather-bound manual he’s flipping through. Professor Byleth, against all of Dimitri’s quiet pleas to _not_ , has assigned him a full essay on elemental affinities in reason, and he does not have the luxury of getting distracted now.

But academic difficulties are not a good enough reason for Claude von Riegan.

“Your Princeliness,” Claude pulls the chair beside Dimitri out unceremoniously, before plonking himself down in the seat, leaning in to stick his nose in the page the prince is on—something about fire affinities and their variations, “Didn’t see you at dinner tonight.”

The words on the page are starting to blur together into unidentifiable blobs on paper. Dimitri’s never quite mastered the art of working smarter—not harder—but the results are always the same when it comes to his tried-and-true method of rote memorisation. He knows he’ll do well on a test, perfectly scratching down the answers on parchment like an exact copy from the books he’s meant to read, but more than a couple of fire spells exploding in his face is enough of an indicator that perhaps reason is not his forte.

“I’ve been working on my assignment,” Dimitri gives an easy smile to Claude, his eyes curving and aching from long periods of staring in low light, “The last bell I recall hearing is for afternoon prayers.”

“You—” Claude looks like he’s in shock, gorgeous peridot-irises widening like dinner plates as his jaw drops in shock, “The bell for lights out is about to go, Dimitri.”

That explains the scream and howl in his back and neck, begging and whining for him to stay still in bed for as long as his responsibilities will humanly allow him to. He presses his fingers to his cheek, before sliding his whole hand across his face in weary fatigue, the soft material of his glove a little grimy from use and quite due for a wash.

“I don’t have the time to slacken, Claude, I really need to get this essay done.”

He thinks that’s it, that’s where Claude will decide to leave him be in the library and head off to bed himself. There is no reason for him to be here, even less because Claude isn’t even of his own house—he’s, in formality, his rival.

In fact, there shouldn’t be a reason why Claude’s come to look for _him_ , of all people. They’re friends, no doubt—Claude makes that excruciatingly clear in his everyday interactions with the Crown Prince of Faerghus. But still, it doesn’t make any logical sense that the boy with unruly dark-brown hair and a piercing green gaze is _here_ , and not back in the dorms, doing whatever he does in the privacy of his room.

“I heard from Sylvain,” Claude’s voice is low, reverberating with a wooden timbre as he presses on, outrightly ignoring any sign of Dimitri not wanting him here, “That you’re not very good with reason?”

“Yes.” Dimitri can’t stop the feeling of shame that rises in his chest, the burn of embarrassment as another one of his weaknesses are divulged. It’s not a secret to the Blue Lions, of course, but he feels that he shouldn’t have to consider it a weakness. What a King, a Monarch should know—everything that should come naturally to him—seems to trip him up every step of the way.

But Dimitri’s never been very good at being perfect. He’s had to pretend for so long, and the way the Officers Academy is structured makes those imperfections of his known to the students he has to spend most of his time with.

It whispers in his ears, it floods his head with doubt. Humiliation. Dishonor. Guilt.

“Hey, no need to look so down about it,” Claude’s tone is teasing, but good natured. “Look, will it be better if I teach you? I’m pretty solid with reason myself, Lysithea’s got some pretty good tips too.”

“I’m not the best student, I’m afraid,” Dimitri admits with shame dripping in his voice, “I’ve attempted to rectify my failures multiple times, but every time I try, it does not work out the way it should.”

Maybe that’s enough, showing off his failures like a trophy of shame to get Claude to leave. He expects a sneer, a tease and a laugh even, and he wouldn’t blame his fellow house leader for it.

But Claude’s never been one to follow expectations imposed on him.

“Well then, let’s get started, shall we?”

Dimitri blinks.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me,” Claude reaches past Dimitri’s hands, pushing them away as he takes the manual for himself. He watches the way nimble fingers flick through the pages idly, his gaze scanning through sentences of magic theory. “I’ll help you out.”

For all of Claude’s schemes and cunning ways, Dimitri’s never really managed to figure out exactly what the mysterious boy’s intentions are. He supposes that there are many benefits to being friends with the Crown Prince of Faerghus, flawed as he is. Though, he does not like to walk down that path of thinking—mistrust alone has already caused multiple voids in his life where once was whole, and it’ll take everything in Dimitri to fight against the poison of suspicion to take root in his heart.

So he finds himself staying in the library, way past the last bell of the day where the students of the Officers Academy are presumably tucked in their beds, heads drifted to sleep and far from the land of the living. The library is dark, due to Claude’s idea of putting out all but one candle in order to minimise their presence—lest a very angry Seteth storms in and punishes them both for breaking rules.

Two boys huddle over a single volume in the dead of the night, thick and full with diagrams that make sense to very little, bodies curved around the lone candlelight to make sense of their pursuit for knowledge.

He will blame this on fatigue for as long as he can until he figures out _what_ it is, but something keeps drawing Dimitri’s gaze to Claude’s face, gently lit by the candle that flickers placidly in its holster. Watching him like this, he’s filled with trepidation that he’s crossed something he can never reverse—something that keeps bringing him to Claude, no matter how far he attempts to run.

He forces his head down again, trying to calm his pounding hard and the growing warmth in his cheeks, sapphire gaze running every sentence printed out on the pages before him.

He does not get very far into his assignment.

**3.**

The world ends.

He sees red, he tastes blood, he feels a roaring flame in his heart as he slices his blade into the flesh of Imperial soldiers. There is nothing he wants— _needs_ more than to finally deafen the ghosts that shriek in his ears. The dying calls of those long passed unfairly to corruption and evils of the world.

He hears a roar above his head, he thinks he hears a shriek, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t care.

All he wants is _her head_.

“Where are you,” He howls above the rush of battle, furiously searching for _her_ , “WHERE ARE YOU. SHOW YOURSELF!”

“Dimitri, _Dimitri,_ ” Someone from his right begins to call him, “Dimitri, we have to go. It’s not safe here.”

“ _NO!_ ” He’s come too far to go now, too close to fulfilling dying wishes for him to give up now. He doesn’t care for the rush of Imperial soldiers that keep blocking his route to where he’s going to search for her next. Something wraps around him—an embrace? Restrains? He can’t tell the difference.

“Dimitri, listen to me. We have to _go_ ,” Dimitri faintly registers the voice belonging to sun-kissed smiles and easy timbre, “It’s too dangerous, we have to get you safe!”

No. _No_. He has to finish what she started, end it before she takes more away from him.

“ _Please,_ ” The voice begs to him, and he finds it difficult—so difficult to move forward. The arms around him tighten, and he can very easily throw them off, but he does not. He’s pulled back into someone smaller, someone who clings on for dear life. In another life, he may have been elated to sink into these arms, but now—no. He doesn’t have time, he needs to end it _now._ He needs, he has to, he—

“Go home, Dima. Please, _please_ , I need you safe.”

Dimitri is so tired. So angry. So _weak_ , pathetic. He tilts his head back, furious, his eyes squeezed shut as he roars one name with all his might—the one person who singlehandedly ends the world, ends everything he’s loved and will ever love.

“ _EDELGARD VON HRESVELG!”_

Garreg Mach falls that day, and the fields are painted a bright crimson, the smell of blood riding upon the wind like a gentle caress. A single ripped piece of blue cloth flutters in the wind, stained with blood, is loosened from where it’s snagged on a branch, before blowing far, far away.

**4.**

Claude gathers his thin yellow cape around his shoulders. Faerghus is far too cold for him, someone who’s always blossomed and thrived in the heat—under the brightest rays of sun that light up the world. For a man who’s always held himself up so highly, it amuses Dimitri, just a little, to see him curled over so small now.

“I c-can’t,” Claude’s teeth chatter, “How on earth do you manage? The whole castle is f-freezing!”

“I don’t blame you. Autumn here is comparable to the winters in the south.”

“I rest my case, every single one of you Faerghans are _snow yetis_.”

Dimitri smiles very gently at this, before he grasps the side of his own cloak, gently laying it over the Alliance Leader. Claude has not, from his observations, grown much in the last five years. From where he barely had to move his head down, Dimitri now has to tilt significantly to meet Claude in the eye. It amuses him, very slightly, though he does not voice this out to his fellow brother-in-arms.

But he does grow in other ways. His body’s filled out more, muscles where there hadn’t been a few years ago. The beard Claude’s grown frames his face perfectly, in a way Dimitri knows he’ll never be able to pull off. Despite the years of fighting, and the stress showing in eyebags and a slight off-colour hue to his face, Claude’s become a man. Dimitri thinks he’s _gorgeous_ , even more than he had been back at the academy.

“Does this help?” He asks while he watches the shorter man grab the extra layer and gather it around him, bundling himself like he would with a blanket.

“Th-Thanks.”

They both stand like that together for a while, lost in thought. Dimitri himself thinks of the day behind him, Cornelia’s last words before she departed for the afterlife, so many mysteries beginning to unravel themselves as more and more secrets are spilled from the lips of both dead and living.

But most of all, he regrets dragging Claude into this.

“Claude—” Dimitri begins, but the shorter man quickly raises a thick, gloved hand, stopping him from whatever he has to say.

“Instead of apologizing, which I _know_ you’re about to do, hear me out, okay?”

His mouth snaps shut.

“I know we haven’t had time to talk right after Gronder, but I just wanna say that I’m glad you’re back.” Claude turns towards him, straightening his frame up as much as the temperature will allow him to, but the chill leaves him shivering, just a little bit.

“But why?” Dimitri asks, appalled by the blind trust that the man has for him. A monster like him who had, up till a month or so ago, had only cared about revenge and quenching bloodthirsty ghosts that continue to breathe down his neck.

“Cause you’re Dimitri,” Is the reply. Claude looks at him with the softest gaze, not even the ghost of a smile on his lips, “You and I, we’re cut from different cloth. You’re the type to help people where you’re needed, I only help when there’s something of benefit for me.”

“More than your sense of duty to your past, I know your love for humanity is stronger.”

Dimitri’s eye widens.

Surely, a monster like him should not have faith given to him. He doesn’t see how— _why_ Claude has so much trust in him, but all he can do now is move forward. His father, Glenn, Rodrigue, the Professor—they wouldn’t have wanted him to live his life chained to the ghosts of his past.

He cannot ask Claude to take his trust back, not when the man’s believed in him even as he drifted back and forth between life and death for five whole years.

And in return, he can only grasp the hand he’s been offered tightly.

“You speak of us being so different like it’s a bad thing,” The blond man gently thumbs the fabric of the cloaks wrapped around Claude, with a gentleness he didn’t think he was ever capable of ever again. “But I don’t think of it as such.”

“Why, Dimitri! Have you finally come to appreciate me?” His voice is teasing, but heartfelt. Something in the vibrating timbre of his voice makes Dimitri want to melt into a puddle of goo, but he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, fumbling enough with the fabric to make yellow peek out from behind blue.

“To be fair, I’ve always appreciated you, Claude. Even if I am a little, um. _Dumb_ , at times. As you may put it.”

The informal language just makes Claude beam even more, and Dimitri thinks he’s _beautiful_ , like the moon’s glow on the darkest of nights—like _hope_ , and courage all the same.

“When you’re being dumb, then,” Claude says, before the both of them retreat back into the more tolerable chill of the castle, “Remember that I’ll always be here to pick you back up. I’ll drag you if I have to, and I won’t be afraid to ask Teach to kick you in the ass proper.”

**5.**

When Claude calls him from the ballroom out to the balcony that night, Dimitri knows that this is chance.

These last three weeks have been very, very difficult on the both of them—alongside their former classmates and found family. The time passed in quite a flurry, leaving Dimitri reeling in fabric samples and colour palettes, alongside urgent documents and treaties to plan, to set into motion. Coronation planning is quite difficult, and he had realised that—in the middle of his seamstresses accidentally pricking him with needles as he’s fitted for his royal garb—he had never been sufficiently prepared to take the throne for himself.

He’s had a ton of help, of course. Hilda was incredibly kind to lead the planning herself, taking on the bulk of decoration planning and arrangements, despite the fact that she didn’t really _need_ to be in Fhirdiad for a whole month, planning for a King that wasn’t her own.

Perhaps she’s in a good mood. After all, the fighting is done—Nemesis is slain and Shambhala is no more. It’s no surprise that she’s eager to throw a party, and who would pass up the chance to plan the grandest party of them all—a coronation?

But even still, Dimitri finds that Hilda’s presence here isn’t quite necessary, and he wouldn’t have thought to burden her with such frivolities in the first place.

“Nonsense!” She had brushed him off when he tried to apologise once, in the midst of her picking lace patterns, “Of _course_ I’m not doing this for a King. I’m doing this for a friend! Now, shoo!”

Insubordination aside, Dimitri is incredibly grateful for this show of friendship from her and the Alliance lords. The celebratory mood, it seems, isn’t exclusive to the people of Faerghus. He’s seen the Gloucester blossoms lining the great halls in their vases and the bundles of Ordelia silks that the servants fill their arms with as they hurry to the sewing rooms.

And of course, Duke Riegan himself.

Claude, bless his soul, accompanies him through the days. There isn’t a day that he has spent in the last two months that Claude hasn’t been present. He passes the hours with him debating over resource allocation and trade agreements, spending the moments in between laughing at horrible clashing colours in the proposed outfit’s design and just _being_ there.

Every moment spent with him is not unwelcome, of course. Dimitri relishes in the tender moments that seem to come from nowhere, shared stares and quiet brushes of skin sending his heart in a flurry over and over again without fail. At some point, it’s gotten too much for Dimitri. He finds it excruciatingly difficult to keep his feelings hidden from Claude himself.

He’s tripped over too many times, resulting in too many instances where the secrets threaten to spill from his mouth like an unstoppable waterfall. While he spends more and more time with Claude, he finds himself wanted to utter those words between shared glances over tea, through pauses in laughter as Claude heaves at a joke Dimitri tells and everything in between.

It’s the night before his coronation, and the small item in his pocket weighs heavy as he responds to Claude’s summon to the balcony.

He doesn’t quite know how he’d manage without his friends, honestly. He still recalls the look Sylvain gave him after he whispered it to him in between meetings, where Claude was surely off-guard.

“Your majesty,” Sylvain breathes out as he pulls back, his eyes almost bulging with how shocked he is, “Are you serious? You’re not—You’re not shitting me, right?”

Dimitri nods stiffly, honestly shocked at the words he’s whispered into Sylvain’s ear less than a minute ago. He knows, obviously, that he’s a man who’s driven by his heart, but even _this_ seems too last-minute for him. Even so, it screams at him. Sincerity and desire surges through his veins, down to the very bottom of his soul, as he decides that this is the next move he shall take.

“No, I’m not,” He responds, “I need you to have it ready in the next few days. Can you do it for me?”

“ _Can I_?” Sylvain says, almost incredulous that Dimitri doubts him and his connections, “I’ll get it done and have it delivered straight to you!”

For all that Sylvain is, Dimitri is grateful that he is reliable, supportive to the very end. He does not know how many times he thanks him when he lays eyes on the metal that glints between pinched fingers, catching light where Sylvain turns his hand.

_It’s absolutely perfect_.

“Hey there,” Claude winks at him when Dimitri joins him out on the balcony, his lip curled and lopsided as he smirks cheekily, “Glad you could join me.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Dimitri bows his head sheepishly, knowing that he might have kept his companion waiting a little too long, delayed slightly by a meeting that kept him back for too long, “There were some final adjustments I needed to approve. I’m here now.”

“No worries.”

Dimitri realises, at this very moment, that he may have grossly miscalculated Claude’s willingness to spend the rest of his life with him. There are many reasons why Claude would— _should_ reject him. Suddenly, asking him such a simple question seems daunting, impossible even.

His hands jitter in their pockets, one fist curled around the tiny circle that sits snug in his pocket.

“So, I have something to—”

“I NEED TO ASK YOU SOMETHING.”

Claude’s eyes snap wide open in shock when Dimitri so suddenly cuts in, his voice shaky and unsteady. Dimitri clears his throat, knowing that if he stops now, there will never come a day again where he’s given the opportunity to ask.

“I…” Dimitri repeats, slower this time. He runs his tongue over his lips, finding them _extremely dry,_ “I need to ask you something.”

With a smooth movement, he pinches the hoop of the ring before he pulls it out. The light streaming from the palace windows making the round sapphire in the centre glisten and glimmer. Flanking the stone, there are diamonds embedded in the thin silver band, sparkling like icicles in sunlight with every twist of [the ring](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51-QuRvT3jL._SL1024_.jpg).

His heart pounds in fear at the thought of what Claude might say, so he doesn’t look up.

Instead, he keeps his eyes down, _away_ from Claude’s face and whatever expression he’s making. From how still the man’s gone in front of him, Dimitri already fears the worst, that Claude’s unhappy—perhaps even _glaring_ at him for his overconfidence.

So he speaks, hoping to get it out fully before Claude has the chance to reject him.

“I—I know that this comes as a surprise, but I want to ask for your hand in marriage,” He says, cursing himself for not taking a deep breath beforehand, “I’m sure that there are many other people who are vying for you, who are much, _much_ more worthy than I. But I truly, truly do… Um. I _love you_. There’s no other way I can put it.”

But nothing. There is nothing but silence from Claude, and Dimitri’s starting to think that his worst fears have come true. He’s waiting in agony for his beloved to speak, to reject him outright instead of searching his mind to let him down easy.

In the end, he doesn’t think he can take it anymore.

“Please… I beg of you, say _something_ ,” He pleads, squeezing his eyes shut as his grip tightens on the ring. He hopes he doesn’t bend it, but the metal digs into his skin, the gentle spikes of pain shooting through the tips of his fingers, “If you do not wish to accept it, _please_ … Just tell me. I—!”

He’s cut short when he finally looks up to face Claude, only to be greeted with warm tears sliding down the man’s sun-kissed cheeks—his emerald gaze watery as he glances to the ring.

“Claude?!” Had his proposal upset him so? Dimitri’s heart clenches in his chest as he drops his hand, reaching his arms around his smaller frame in apology. He pulls Claude up against his chest, protective, warm, if only to comfort him from whatever’s gotten this man to show himself in a vulnerable state in the first place.

“Dimitri, _Dima—_ ” The smaller man sounds choked up, still fighting to keep his composure as his fingers reaching in to curl into Dimitri’s back. Dimitri’s heart sinks—aches even—to see his beloved so in pain, so _hurt_ , and he’s unable to do anything about it.

“I can’t accept it.” Claude whispers, his voice so utterly _broken_ that the pieces pierce Dimitri through the heart. He should have seen this coming of course. He should have known long ago that Dimitri isn’t good enough, too much of a shadow for sunlight like Claude. But even still, his arms are tight around the trembling frame, protective and comforting.

“It’s okay, I understand—”

“No, Dimitri. _You don’t._ I _can’t_ accept it,” Claude finally pulls his head away just enough for them to see eye to eye, their noses so close that they almost brush. The tears in Claude’s eyes threaten to spill further even more, leaving tracks behind on his cheeks as the moonlight glistens on the leftover wetness, “I’m leaving Fódlan.”

The world stops spinning.

“Leaving?” Dimitri is shocked. For every single scenario his head managed to churn out, he didn’t think that this was an option in the first place. He knows that Claude has another home, another land to return to, but even still, he had always hoped that he stayed here with _him_ , in Fódlan, not anywhere else.

“After your coronation,” Claude says, steadying his voice as much as he can as he adverts his gaze from Dimitri, “I am going to cross the Throat, back to my homeland.”

“You didn’t tell me this,” Dimitri doesn’t beg. He knows that Claude has his reasons for everything he does, every step taken with appropriate amounts of risk calculated. But this is far too big of a revelation for him to properly register now, “Why are you leaving so soon?”

“The Fódlan blood that flows in my veins,” Claude’s voice is apologetic, painfully so, “I’ve used it up as best as I could. Now I have to my _other_ bloodline, to change my homeland for the better.”

“Bloodline?”

“I am the Prince of Almyra.” Claude finally reveals to him, such a heavy secret that’s stayed hidden from the longest time, even during their academy days. To Dimitri, it’s as if a single puzzle piece, the last one to complete the picture, has fitted into place. The mysteries of the man that had held his heart so tightly in his chest, the way he had avoided any and every discussion on Almyra and anything beyond Fódlan’s Throat—Dimitri is simultaneously surprised and indifferent at Claude’s admission.

“I am the Prince of Almyra, and that’s why I must go home. Now that I’ve changed things _here_ , I have to change what lies beyond the borders. If I don’t, I’ll _never_ finish the world I dreamed of creating.”

“Claude, I can’t rule Faerghus alone.” It is Dimitri’s truth. He does not yet see himself as the King that Faerghus is meant to have, the crown still feels too big for him—like it might slip off at any moment. He does not believe in his abilities, nor does he trust that he has the strength to see it through.

And to be honest, he was banking heavily on Claude’s support, even after his coronation.

“And why not?” Claude asks. “Why not, Dima?”

“I do not have your foresight, nor do I have your flair for politics. I am terrified that a single misstep will send Fódlan into hysterics once more, especially in such a precarious state.”

“But your courage, your empathy, your _heart_ , Dimitri. That’s what Fódlan needs at the moment—a heart to rule. We’ve just gone through five years of war, Faerghus needs a King with a soul, more than ever. We can’t allow the Kingdom to fall much into its former ways.”

But is Claude so sure?

“I don’t—”

“ _Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,_ ” His hands are grasped, squeezed in a warmer grip, filled with determination, “There is no one, _no one_ more fit for the throne than you. Believe that.”

Somehow, the way Claude says it makes Dimitri believe that he can, that he’s meant to be where he is—less than twelve hours away from become the true ruler of Faerghus, recognised by law. There is so much _trust_ that fills every word, sincere and honest belief that Dimitri—for all his flaws and faults—can lead his people to greatness and bring Fódlan to greater heights.

“Then you,” Dimitri asks, resigning to his fate that he’ll have to do this alone, “Will you ever come back to Fódlan?”

_Will you ever come back to me?_ He thinks.

There comes to reply, not yet. Those hands that grasp Dimitri’s gently let go, before the warmth moves up to his cheeks. Claude holds his cheeks in his hands, pulling his head down so that they’re facing each other again. Their heads are angled perfectly, enough for their lips to brush together just a little, and those dark lashes flutter shut as Claude utters his response to Dimitri’s question.

“Don’t get this wrong, Dimitri. Almyra is my homeland, but _you_ are my _home._ ”

Tomorrow, Dimitri is King when he finally stands before his throne, his _rightful_ throne. He holds the silver sceptre in his left hand, its top a silver carved lion adorned with jewels—no doubt expensive. In his right, a silver globe, weighing down his hand as it sits snuggly in his palm.

The crowds stare upon him, cloaked in deep blues and glimmering golds, but all his eye can see is _him_. Claude raises his hand from where he’s standing, the middle of the crowd towards the left, the sparkle that catches on his ring finger reminding him that he has a duty to finish—to his people, to himself, and to the love of his life.

“Presenting, His Majesty Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” The Archbishop Byleth raises their voice, announcing to the world his birth, his ascension, “King of The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

The deafening cheer does nothing to break the gaze he shares with Claude, longing.

**6.**

The war officially ends in the late days of spring, a couple of months after the anniversary of Archbishop Byleth’s return.

Faerghus is cold. By Fódlan’s standards, the region is much colder than what everyone else experiences throughout the year, where summer should beat down on heads relentlessly while the heat soaks up everything. It is why their traditions all revolve around survival, around fireplaces and freshly hunted game, and why some of them are currently suffering under unusually high temperatures that announce the arrival of summer.

His time in Garreg Mach has proven that the Faerghans do not take to heat well, and summers away from the frigid north are too much for the natives of the snowy, barren landscape. While Fhirdiad works hard at restructuring and recovery, his generals and former schoolmates traverse the interiors of Castle Fhirdiad in light, thin layers, rushing to the next meeting with stacks of papers in their hands. And the next meeting. And the next meeting. And the next.

He is not an exception to this. Dimitri’s pelts and thick armour have found a home with the seamstresses and laundry maids, replaced by breezy cotton shirts and loose slacks that make it easy for him to move through the halls of his palace—something he finds that he’s doing more and more these days.

The end of the war has not been easy on any of them.

Less than a month after his coronation—and barely two after his and Claude’s joint statement on the war ending, an endless barrage of paperwork sneaks its way into Dimitri’s waking moments. There is something new to address every day, and he barely has time to breathe easy when all he thinks about his Faerghus and Fódlan. Resource shortages, debts to the merchants who had so kindly helped to fund their war campaign, and even the question of trade between existing territorial boundaries.

But what Dimitri worries about the most is leadership.

The question of who would now lead the Alliance and the Empire weighs heavy on his mind. There is no doubt that the former nobles of Adrestia would swear fealty to him, he is only waiting for official confirmation from the houses themselves—friends who have turned their back on their homeland for a different path.

The Alliance is an entirely different matter. They had fought alongside the Kingdom in the years where he was presumed dead. But now that peace had finally, _finally_ returned to Fódlan, he had to ask himself—where does the Alliance wish to move on from here on out? The role of the Sovereign Duke will have to be decided between Lorenz and House Goneril’s General Holst—a decision that Dimitri does not want to make. It is, in his opinion, not in the Kingdom’s jurisdiction to make the choice, but as allies, he will do all he can to support them and smooth their transition into peacetime.

… Allies. Years ago, the Kingdom wouldn’t even have considered the Alliance as allies.

He stands by his balcony. His eyes flicker downward to the city of Fhirdiad, the gentle lamps illuminating the dark ever so slightly. There is nothing to be seen in the sky tonight. Dark clouds loom over them, warning of storms and showers to come in the next few days. He is alone tonight, and maybe it is for the best. Too much in his head for him to handle, but not enough energy to deal with anyone else at the moment.

There was someone on this balcony with him once, months ago after he had wrenched the capital free from Cornelia’s bloodstained claws. The night had been similar, storm clouds hanging heavy and heralding a shower to wash off the blood that had fallen on the walls of Fhirdiad that day. 

The chill of fall has long gone since then, leaving Dimitri alone on his balcony as he stands alone with his thoughts, questions of the moon and where it may hide tonight—behind dark clouds that no human can see.

**7.**

It does not come as a surprise to him when, on the second Verdant Rain Moon after war ends, Sylvain comes to him with news of an imminent wedding.

He’s seen the fleeting moments between his friends, sometimes even walking in on their more... _unsavoury_ moments—but he is the first one who can attest to the strong, deep-rooted love Sylvain has for the new Duke Fraldarius, as standoffish as he is.

Their announcement sets off a whole chain of proposals and unions. Every couple of weeks brings news to his desk in both official and informal mediums. He receives a pink card with the Crest of Goneril embossed in gold on the cover one day, revealing Hilda’s pretty cursive on the inside, inviting him to the wedding of Hilda Valentine Goneril and Marianne von Edmund.

He receives a visit from Lorenz himself, who excitedly shares his upcoming plans to propose to a woman who’s caught his eye. Whoever the charming woman is, Dimitri can see very clearly for himself that Lorenz is captivated, head over heels as he chatters away about her gentle disposition and love for gardening and fine arts.

He even catches Dedue sketching in a thread-bound notebook he carries around, and he catches glimpses of suspicious circular shapes on the page. He knows—teases him about it even—that Dedue has always dreamed about crafting his own ring for his intended. Now that he had some form of evidence that his retainer had affections for another, it doesn’t stop Dimitri from probing his nose into it, ever so concerned for his closest friend.

“Who are they?” He asks him as Dedue sets a fresh stack of documents on his desk. Dimitri’s in a lighter mood today, having gotten a rare night of dreamless sleep the previous day. He owes it to his own fatigue for knocking him out so deeply, deep enough that he has no energy to stay up later than his body can tolerate.

“Your majesty,” Dedue tries to cut him off, his tone quietly warning even, but Dimitri can see the blooming blush on his cheeks. “You shouldn’t burden yourself with things like these—”

“Who?” The King asks once more, insistent this time as a smile stretches across his cheeks. It comes easier to him these days, where he can rest easy without the looming danger of war breathing down his back.

Dedue pauses for a moment, stilling in his movements to organise the stack in his hands, before he sighs and slackens his shoulders.

“Ashe.”

“I knew it!” Dimitri all but hollers, standing up from his seat excitedly. “I knew you liked him! Claude and I kept catching the both of you in this very particular mood—”

“Yes, your Majesty,” The more muscular of the two cuts in, and it gives Dimitri endless satisfaction to see Dedue _blushing_ properly, actual _fluster_ that he’s never witnessed from his friend before, “Ashe and I, we are very involved with each other.”

“I can rest easy and die a happy man now,” Dimitri plops back down into his chair with a satisfied hum, bristling at the edges from the news, “When’s the wedding?”

“I have yet to propose to him.”

“This won’t do, now. Do you need me to ask for a jeweller? Consider this a present from me, friend—”

“With all due respect, Dimitri,” And all of a sudden, he feels like the tides have turned, where _he’s_ the one being interrogated now. Dedue’s icy-blue, all-knowing gaze stares right at him, as the hint of a smile curves at the corner of his lips, “I have it handled.”

“My— _our_ concerns now focus on _you_. I have been inquired many times on the King’s choice of partner,” And _oh_ , does Dedue know. He’s never underestimated how much Dedue observes, but even the most secret things he keeps close to his heart do not go unseen by the King’s Retainer, who’s long learned the way Dimitri works, “What should I say, the next time someone asks again?”

_The next time someone asks._

It’s been two-and-a-half years since he’s seen Claude. He understands the reason why, but the ache of the void in Dimitri’s life does not lessen as time goes on. To be fair, Dimitri is doing just fine, thank you very much—but the continuous daisy chain of good news only serves to remind the King harshly of his own intended, far away from him and so out of reach.

He is not demoralised, however. He’s promised to someone who’s made it very clear that his feelings are returned. He knows what he wants, and he will be a patient man. Dimitri can imagine his friends’ faces as they receive letters filled with good tidings, of a new King in the region coming home to Fódlan, coming home to _them—_ to _him._

And until then, he will wait.

“Tell them that it is not time for me just yet.”

Dedue smiles at him, understanding.

**8.**

As sunlight lays at the edge of the world, the dusk begins to creep upon them, calling the living to rest their heads as the day finishes off. The light cascades through the windows of the palace, shining through glistening icicles already forming on the hanging ledges in the palace.

Despite his loudest orders to _not_ fuss over him for his birthday, his staff and friends are—once again— _treasonous_. They are not very good at following orders, it seems, for he can definitely see a stack of presents towered high on the table in his office, no doubt from his friends that reach far across the corners of Fódlan.

Dimitri has never been the type to celebrate his birthday. He might have, thirteen years ago, but oftentimes he feels that his right to rejoice on this day burned to a crisp, along with the family that he knew in a past life. But while he’d much rather pretend to forget his birthday, his friends have never allowed him to get away scott-free.

And so, they bless the great white halls of Castle Fhirdiad with cheer, laughter and plenty of alcohol, dragging in every staff that passes by to honour the Savior King of Fódlan.

But festivities are not what Dimitri enjoys. A little bit is fine, but at some point in the day, he escapes to his office—only to find that the sun is beginning to set past the horizon, twilight chasing hot on its heels as it cloaks the land in stars.

He chooses to ignore the pile, deciding to save it for tomorrow or another time where he’s less overwhelmed by it all. Instead, Dimitri turns towards his mahogany desk, looking forward to sit down in _silence_ and just stop thinking altogether for the day.

He’s about to sink into the comfort of leather when he spots it—a small, inconspicuous box resting on top of a document he’s left halfway the day before. It’s not big enough for him to add to the pile, but something about it calls him—beckons him to open.

His fingers brush against the velvet, the dark green reminding him of a forest.

_No sender_ , he notices a lag of a tag, nothing to indicate a sender of any sort. Maybe it’s not a gift for him, but rather a box that someone’s dropped in his office as they came to leave letters in his in-tray.

But when he moves to open the box, what’s inside surprises him.

The band is a polished gold, clearly brand new. [The ring](https://i.etsystatic.com/14533306/r/il/f0aa23/1493104185/il_570xN.1493104185_aer7.jpg) is subtle and sophisticated, curved at the front with five crystal-clear emeralds secured into the gold. Diamonds mix with the emeralds, sparkling under his lamp no matter which angle he rotates his wrist. They glimmer like an emerald rain, and it makes him think of—

Makes him think of…

Dimitri stands up, curling his fist over the ring as he rushes out of his office.

\---

He doesn’t know when, _where_ , _how_ this managed to sneak right under his nose undetected. He doesn’t know whether he should be angry or happy, because _clearly_ , the celebrations of today had been nothing but a distraction, keeping him away from the _true_ gift of the day.

Because if he knows his friends, if he knows _Dedue_ , they would have done something like this.

His heart pounds, a feeling he hasn’t felt in years. He feels like he could rip his skin off, like he could just drop on the carpet and scream into the open with how _hysterical_ he is. The last time he felt so much bouncing around his chest and through his body had been _years_ ago, close to the end of the war. There hasn’t been anything that frustrated him so deeply since—made him _so happy_ since.

Because _of course_ they would all prolong this further to make the intended effect sweeter, more potent.

He does not waste a single minute slowing down. Dimitri pushes himself forward, faster, using every muscle in his body to get to the grand entrance hall—where he thinks his prize awaits him. The agony of a wait, the pain of an empty bed and the lack of a voice to written word.

_Enough is enough_ , he thinks, _come home to me._

He slows down in the hall, frantically moving his head around as he hunts for him, for the man who escaped his life so soon. He wonders how much he’s grown, has he been eating well, if he still loves him, if he’ll stop loving him as soon as their eyes meet—

“DIMITRI!”

And it’s like he’s never left.

He’s still smaller, still shorter than Dimitri—but he’s changed. His hair’s thicker, lush with a gorgeous dewey gloss he’s never quite noticed before. His skin radiates a sunny glow, as if the personification of summer visited Dimitri’s halls personally and filled the space with warmth. And he’s filled out _even more_ , his shoulders and back shaped in a way that makes Dimitri want to get on his knees.

But his smile, oh. His _smile_. It’s never changed—he’s still being welcomed with open arms and light, of relief at the end of a long day.

Claude. _His_ Claude. His fiancée, his everything.

Dimitri rushes towards him, throwing his arms around his beloved, before lifting him up as high as he can.

“Claude. _Claude_. You’re back! You’re…!” He cries out, and he honestly thinks that he might literally cry. His beloved is in his arms, _in the flesh_ , his returning the embrace with as much strength he can muster. Dimitri pushes his lips to every corner and nook he can find, every slither of skin exposed to him so he can leave evidence that Claude is _here_ , not like the dreams he tended to have.

“I’m home, Dima. I’m home, I’m _home_.” Claude mutters. With how much Dimitri is moving his head, Claude has to follow with his own until he finally gives the birthday boy his prize, long-waited, but rightfully earned.

Those soft lips brush against Dimitri’s, before he presses in for a kiss, connecting them as one for the first time in forever. It’s desperate, their kiss rough as if the other will leave again if they part, unapologetic as they finally let down their walls around each other. They kiss for what feels like forever, until one of them—Dimitri does not know who—has to come up for air.

They part, panting and gasping for fresh mouthfuls of air, but so _so happy_.

“About time you came home,” Dimitri says, his head dizzy from how lightheaded he feels, whether from lack of air or unbridled happiness he does not know, “You lost to Lorenz, you know. He got married first.”

The booming laugh from the man gathered in his arms sends fireworks flying in his heart, colours lighting up the darkest parts as he leans in for one more kiss—the first out of many debts to claim from each other.

**1.**

“Do you think that destiny exists, Claude?”

The stars are bright tonight. It is a particularly clear night, not a cloud in the sky. According to Flayn, there is no rain forecasted for the next few days. There is, however, a very nice breeze that washes over them both while they stand out on the walkway to the cathedral, nothing but the flickering lamps and each other to keep them company.

“Destiny, huh.” Claude’s leaning on the brick barrier, his head tilted upwards as he stares off into the sea of stars that stretch out above them, no end in sight, “Not particularly.”

“I see.” Dimitri does not know how to reply to that. He’s grown up knowing that destiny has already been set in stone for him, and it will surely be impossible for him to rewrite what the Goddess herself has ordained for him. He too, turns his head towards the sky.

They sparkle down at them, burning like a million fires in the sky, but so beautiful all the same.

As leaders of their own separate houses, it is near impossible for them to meet, to associate with each other. They’re far too busy with their own duties and agendas to attend to, occupied with the ongoings of their own territories. He wonders, truly, how he managed to find friendship in Claude, through their limited interactions between classes and spars at the training grounds.

A chance meeting after a particularly long mission leads Dimitri to standing here on the bridge with his peer, his _friend_ , their shoulders barely brushed against each other while their hands lay side by side on dusty brick.

Dimitri does not speak. What else is there to say, really? Dimitri knows that more than anything, the two of them need this silence—this comfort that they find in each other’s presence. He relishes in the tranquillity, letting everything escape him, just this once.

There is a lot on his mind tonight, as usual. It whispers in his ears, it weighs down his eyelids, but he cannot rest yet. Not just yet. The crown weighs on him a little heavier tonight, and his people call for him. They rip him apart from the aside, the fine line between promises made and duty dragging his heart down into the ocean.

But Claude’s gentle voice lulls him out of that trance, and Dimitri turns his head to look at the slightly shorter boy once more.

“I do think that if destiny does exist though, it’d be nice to have you by my side, through it all.”

Dimitri’s heart lurches in his chest. It is a vulnerability he’s never witnessed before, the aching rawness of his words hidden under an easy smile that’s too tight around the corners, too forced to be natural. It’s as if Claude’s desperate to hide, after giving him the tiniest peek of his heart, afraid of any reaction Dimitri might have for him.

But he doesn’t let him run. He doesn’t let him hide. Instead, he reaches out and brushes his hand over sun-kissed knuckles, curving his fingers over the palm and pulling it closer to his frame. He is protective, careful of Claude’s fragility, but still accepting all the same.

“I think so too.”

For the first time ever, Dimitri thinks about how his destiny looks. He still envisions ivory and gold, a weight too heavy on his head as he’s wrapped in vibrant hues of blue. But it’s different this time.

He imagines the wind through his blonde hair as he’s surrounded by verdant, emerald chroma. He thinks of an embrace that welcomes him home no matter where he is—asking him to rest his tired head, and surrender himself to trust and love.

**Author's Note:**

> [scream about dimiclaude with me here!!](https://twitter.com/nekohmy)


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